


Mouthful

by cuntoid



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alien Cock, Deep Throating, F/M, FaceFucking, Fourth Wall Break, Oral Sex, Other, Stalking, dubcon, fourth wall? who’s that, i mean i say break but that fuckin thing is shattered, noncon, this is not super fun for you ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 03:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13022412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: A Popcorn Commission: Pennywise gives you a thorough taste of what you’ve been craving.





	Mouthful

Since the release and several subsequent viewings of the remake, your evening walks take on a secretive new twist. You peek playfully at the sewer grates, at the cement mouths fitted into the curbsides. You stare a little longer into the trees, watch the windows of abandoned buildings and houses, waiting for a wink of... something. It's a private thrill imagining some kind of malevolent thing in there, some real-life It stalking the streets and hiding just out of view, watching, waiting. 

So, you revel in these daydreams to pass the time, to tease yourself. It makes you hyper aware of your surroundings and of every shadow and potential hiding place, anything to inject yourself with that pleasurable prick of fear. You shouldn't want it, but here you are, thrumming with need and nerves, navigating the premature nightfall of new winter and watching plumes of your breath ghost ahead of you. 

The area itself is by no means rural, but the snap of a twig or the strange yip of an animal isn't uncommon. You pay next to no attention to these things as you lose yourself in your thoughts, happy to let it go until... there's a laugh.

It stops you in your tracks. A chill shudders down your spine and you whip your head around searching for the source, finding the streets as barren as ever. Everyone is either indoors or stuck in rush-hour traffic, leaving the side roads and developments relatively empty of action. It's only you on the worn sidewalk, you and the lines of houses, the distant sounds of downtown like phantoms on the wind. 

It's too dark to eyeball anything in the sparse woods across the street, so you don't even try. Another snap jolts you out of your skin and you start walking again, ice water flooding your veins, praying with every fiber of your being that you're alone. There's only a few blocks left until your home is within view - you cling to this knowledge like beads on a rosary, rolling words around your mouth as if they'll help you: _I'm safe. I'm okay. I'm alone. I'm safe, I'm okay, I'm -_

"Hello, _hello_ , pretty little thing. You lost?"

It whispers past your ear with all the softness of rusted bells, pulling a shriek from your lungs as you jerk away and slap a hand against your ear. You swipe mindlessly at it, brushing away the goosebumps and finding yourself utterly alone but for the chuckle riding the wind around you. It comes from different directions and then all directions at once, a sound so ironically familiar that you refuse to acknowledge it. Even entertaining the thought of its similarity to a certain fictional evil threatens to plunge you into a dissociative spiral, and before you succumb to the fear and break into a sprint, it stops. Everything is still.

The rest of your walk is spent in a hot blur of adrenaline; every little sound sets you off and your ribs ache with each shuddering breath, propelling your legs forward until you’re finally fumbling for your key. You prize it from the others and manage to slip it into its slot, ripping the door open and ducking inside before you peer around its edge. Whatever seemed to be following you is gone; the only movement is dry leaves scraping over the street. Shutting and locking your door restores an inkling of strength to your withered nerves and you nearly make it to the kitchen before you notice it - something in the corner of your living room. Something _big._

It giggles softly to itself at the way you startle, the sound like a gurgle, rising up from its hulking frame like air bubbles in the bloodstream as you clutch at your chest and freeze up. 

“You’re not real,” you whisper. It’s a mystery how the words get past your lips. A lump throbs idly in your throat, pushing tears up to blur your vision. “This isn’t real. I’m having.. a.. I’m -“

_I’m having a mental breakdown_. That’s what you want to say to Pennywise, teasing you with the shifting veil of blackness over his features - but you know it’s him, or somebody dressed like him. You catch a glint of his teeth, the hungry glow of his eyes, the sheen of his drool and the ample curve of a cheekbone catching the light when he moves. 

“ _It’s not real, it’s not real!_ That might work in your little films, child,” he chides. He licks his wet lips, the slurp of it audible in the heavy quiet. “But it won’t work here.”

His voice is identical to its latest artistic interpretation, uneven and crackled through with grit. Your fear is at odds with your awe, with the deep fissure cracking its way through your sanity as he creeps out from his hiding place and the tiny bells clinging to his ruffles shimmy and chime. He grins knowingly, twirling as if to prove that he is indeed real. 

You reach down to the reassuring bulge of your cell phone in your pocket. It barely tugs free of its confines before his eyes flick down to your hand and he’s there, lighting across the room in a blink to yank your wrist up. He squeezes until the bones inside grind together and your fingers bloom apart like a flower, phone dropping to your feet. 

“Mmm, oh _no!_ Did you need that?” His titters erupt into manic peals of laughter as he kicks it, releasing your wrist to lift you by your armpits. He swings you around in a circle, chuckling low with each twist and turn until you recognize a rhythm to his steps - he’s dancing a lazy waltz, pulling you to and fro like a doll. Claws dig through your shirt and into the tender meat of your ribs. He peers into your eyes, wide mouth tipped up at the corners. Up close, with his hot, metallic breath and impossible strength, his sheer size, you know he’s not just a costume. Not even fucking close.

He hums as he skims your throat with his nose, squeezing a horrified whine from you as his claws pop through flesh and find a home just under your skin. Fire races up your ribcage like a current. Pennywise makes a small noise of pleasure at this, akin to a purr.

“You’re so _confused!_ Helpless little prey. Isn’t this what you’ve wanted? What you’ve been _fucking_ yourself to? Mm?” The features of your home race around you in a dark blur with each spin in the clown’s arms. You close your eyes against the vertigo and he stops, chest vibrating with an impatient, insectlike buzz, and then there’s pain in your shoulder. Hundreds of tiny sharkteeth open you up and he slurps at your blood like he’s never tasted something so divine, head shaking like an animal playing with its kill. “I know you’re wet. Wet... and _ripe_... and _wanting_. Wanting the _biiig bad monster to fuck you open_ \- isn’t that right?”

Each harsh consonant snaps off his tongue and warms the traitorous tendrils of arousal curling in the deep, soft place between your thighs. He pulls back, lips and teeth stained a sticky red as he sniffs the air and shudders. His skin is unlike anything you’ve encountered. It repulses you as it slithers over yours, as his lips fasten over your skin in a series of open-mouthed kisses to your ruined shoulder. 

“I can smell you, tiny thing. Can smell it, can _taste_ it, can see you in your own mind. Moaning. _Screeaaaming_ for me, begging for your life. For the chance to finally cum. You want to cum, little girl?”

He holds you at length, glowering down at you with eyes lit from within, as if fire rages molten in the core of his body. Deadlights. The word drifts unbidden from a pocket in your mind and Pennywise pouts his generous bottom lip at your silence.

“Don’t wanna cum? Mmm, well, _somebody_ ought to. What do you say? Actually - _don’t say anything! Just open wide!_ ”

One moment he has you impaled on his claws and the next, you’re crumpled on the floor as he drops you, struggling to your shaky knees while his thumb forces its way between your lips. The reality of his size is even more apparent from your prone position, from the way his thumb is large enough to fill your mouth; your eyes slink guiltily down his outfit, over each flare and ruffle and fold. If all of him is so massive... Curiosity gnaws at you as you force your eyes back up to meet his, banishing the aching question from your mind, refusing to even grant it coherence.

Despite this, you feel it - the greasy, picked-over sensation in your as he takes in all of those abstract feelings and intentions, studying your synapses. There’s an indescribable tingle as he sips from your unfiltered stream of consciousness. He uses his free hand to take yours and press it up between his thighs, delighting in the whimper passing over his wet thumb and into his palm like a gift. What you feel there scares you, helpless against his iron grip even as you recoil away from the thick, squirming thing hiding in the pleats of his costume. It emanates a heat that feels like it should burn, but it doesn’t; the physical paradox of this has your head spinning in a way that makes the clown’s cock throb.

“The little thing wants to see,” he rasps, drool falling from the edge of his lip in ropes. “ _I’ll show you - I’ll show you_. You be good for Pennywise, now, you hear?” 

He fusses with the intricacies of his costume as you watch, numbed with fear and the steady ebb-and-flow of arousal. Trying to hide it from him is an exercise in futility. You’ve imagined this moment countless times, being dominated by Pennywise the Dancing Clown; your current reality is much different than those fevered daydreams and you tremble before it, unsure if you’ll make it out alive.

His cock is eerily familiar, the exact image you’d painted of it in your head. He hums with pleasure and strokes his fingers along its wriggling length, punctuated with small, fleshy ridges and bumps, leaking slick from every pore. It glistens with it, the color of his flesh shifting like smoke as it undulates and curves out, seeking your mouth.

“ _Open up, open up_ \- won’t take long. You see, I’ve been waiting. And _watching_. I know the naughty things you do with my name on those lips, _oh, yes I do._ All of you humans, so involved in your perversions, bringing ol’ Penny back to life with your filthy need. Like blood in the water. I like the way you all smell, so good, so willing and _hot -_ ”

He trails off into a broken moan as he replaces his thumb in your mouth with the tip of his cock. The sight of it is revolting, but he tastes sweet as spun sugar, sticky with it. It’s shamefully easy to lap at the swollen head, tilting into his touch when he frames your face with his large hands. His cock writhes against your lips, smearing more of that candied ichor over your tongue and down your chin, where you lick it off with an eagerness that seems to please him.

Pennywise watches you lick and stroke and suck, content to let you explore his body for the moment being. Little muscle spasms flutter under your palms as you rest them against his thighs. The texture of his flesh unsettles you in a way that awakens some buried animal instinct. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you run your fingers along a thick, tendon-like ridge underneath, feeling it flex under your ministrations. It’s wrong. There’s no earthly texture like it, though it makes you think of touching cobwebs, or soft, rotting fruit. 

“Can’t wait any longer,” he growls. His voice layers over itself, a choral roar that bounces off the walls in your home and steals the strength from your very bones. Deep in their marrow you feel that primordial pull, sirens wailing in the delicate helixes of your DNA: _run! Run!! Run run runrunRUN -_

Pennywise scents the air like a bloodhound and fixes you with his wide, bleeding glare, golden eyes gone red. His hips shudder forward and he groans as his cock scrapes past your teeth, forcing your jaws apart until hot cords of pain shriek at the corners and threaten to dislocate it. The tight ring of your throat stands no chance against the offending organ as it pushes beyond, managing somehow to slink down your esophagus, changing its shape to dart deep into your body and taste the bile of your stomach. Everything in your abdomen clenches as you retch against the intrusion.

Salivary glands light up in the wake of his assault and you’re dripping with it, eyes streaming to match. The agonized moans above your head make it nearly worth it. A dull throb starts between your thighs and despite the pain, despite being unable to escape the horror of choking on his alien cock, thrust into the far reaches of your throat and putting spots in your vision, you want it. You want the giddy rush of adrenaline and the taste of him, you want him guiding your skull like a helpless fucktoy while he grunts and growls and takes what he wants.

“Oh, look at that - you _want_ this! You naughty, naughty thing. You’re going to make a fun little pet, _yesss_ you are. A soft, obedient snack between meals. Is it as good as your dreams? Speak up, child, what’s the matter? Clown got your tongue?” 

His laughter this time is weak, broken up between ragged gasps to echo the way his hips stutter out of rhythm, the shapeshifting thing pulling up from your gut to offer you at least a little relief as he approaches his own end. You’re left neglected, squirming where you kneel and miserable with ache. Thoughts and images that don’t belong to you flood your mind and show the two of you in endless joining, flickers of hot skin and sweat and blood, a sensory overload that boils your nervous system in withheld pleasure. 

There’s a telltale jerk and pulse, his cock engorging over your tongue to give your throat one last stretch before he’s speaking urgently in another language. These new syllables are too ancient to be sharp, muddled and forbidden as they sound. The words, whatever they mean, send you into a blind panic that has you thrashing to escape his grip, clawing at his wrists, his thighs, pushing off to be met with the immovable force of his hands. He moves them from your skull to your hair, knotting his fingers there to keep you docile and listening. You shouldn’t be hearing it, he shouldn’t exist here. 

“Does it hurt? Is it just too much, sweetling? _Be still and swallow_. Swallow my cum like you’ve been swallowing against my cock. That’s a good girl.”

His cum is much more of the same - sweet, viscous, spurting in thick ropes down the back of your tongue as he spasms. He rocks his hips through his orgasm and a gorgeous whine escapes his full, wet lips, parted to display all of those sharp teeth as you glance up. He pumps his cum into your belly until your vision starts to fuzz at the edges before he slides free from your mouth and graces you with your own breath again.

He giggles as you smack your palms against the floor and gag, cum and spit drooling from your tongue and spattering over the fibers of the carpet with each cough. Your entire face hurts. Muscles in your throat and cheeks burn and you look up at him, too far gone to feel ashamed of your disgusting display. Pennywise doesn’t flinch at your dry heaves or the way his cum soils your clothing, the way you can’t settle on sobbing or breathing, nose running to join the array of bodily fluids clinging to your face. 

“That was really something, plaything. You’re a bit more durable than I’d given you credit for. I’m going to enjoy this.” At the widening of your eyes, he mirrors your expression and taps his lips. “ _Ohohoh!_ Did the new toy not expect a repeat performance? Next time, I’ll taste _you._ See what that tight little cunt can take. In the meantime...” 

He bows after licking his lips, waving one hand goodbye before he splays the fingers out and brings his thumb to his mouth. With a wink, he takes a deep breath, pushes his thumb between his lips, and blows - and he’s gone.


End file.
